by Dylan Farrow
When I was much younger, we used to sit like this after dinnertime. Pa smoked his pipe and Kieran played with the toy Bards he sculpted from clay. Ma would braid my hair. Like those old bedtime stories, it was a time of warmth and safety. The tradition tapered off after Pa and Kieran died, but every so often, Ma rekindles it with only the two of us—when she knows I need it most.
The agitation in her fingers is gone as they gently comb though my hair. It isn’t particularly pretty like Fiona’s thick waves, but it’s long enough to twist and shape, which I think Ma enjoys. When I was young, she’d weave wildflowers into my braid.
The fire warms us both, her hands gathering my hair, and the images come—not dreams, exactly, but more than memories. Hungrier, somehow, and scarier, bursting through me like a storm of darkness—the sound of hooves, a pack of horses on a dusty road. A little boy weeping. Blue veins.
I sit against Ma’s knees, eyes squeezed shut, until the fire burns down to embers, and the stew is no longer steaming. A soft snore behind me reports that she has fallen asleep. I sit up and pat the elaborate braid she left in my hair, careful not to wake her.
Reclining in her chair, she appears peaceful in a way she doesn’t during the day. The crow’s feet and fine lines by her brow are softened, making her look more like the woman from my childhood. I pull the blanket off the back of the chair and drape it over her, pressing a kiss to the silver streak of hair at her temple. She snores gently, but doesn’t stir.
Strange as it sounds, that snore is the closest thing I’ve heard to her voice in years, and I wait in case I hear it again. Instead, Ma turns her head and her breath quiets.
I feel a pang of sadness in my chest. She deserves better than this. She deserves to know what’s happening to me, but she can’t.
But I’m not the only one in the house keeping secrets.
One night, when I couldn’t sleep after Kieran’s death, I watched from under my blankets as Ma gingerly removed a small item concealed beneath her bed and cradled it, before hiding it once more. Her faint candlelit shadow spread over my bed as she looked me over, and gently kissed my hair before she lay back down and fell asleep.
Now, I quietly step over to her wooden bed frame and reach below, my fingers searching for the small hole in the mattress. I withdraw a cloth pouch the size of my palm. There are strange symbols skillfully stitched into the cloth, but it is otherwise plain. I tip out the contents, and a small but heavy stone talisman slides into my other hand.
My mother’s secret treasure: a small, golden ox, a central figure in the stories of Gondal. It was Kieran’s. I don’t remember the day, but one morning he came home with it, claiming that a trader passing through the town had gifted it to him. Ma wanted to throw it away—it was only a year later that the Bards started raiding towns, hunting for banned items like these to destroy them once and for all. When she told us she’d burned it, Kieran was inconsolable. But he snuck over to my bed one night, opening his palm to reveal the ox. The strange material wouldn’t catch flame, he said. Instead, the gold only shone brighter.
Now Ma hides the figure, keeping it despite the danger.
I gently turn the figure over in my hand, feeling its weight. Upon closer inspection, I can see tiny greenish-gold veins in the stone, shimmering without the need for light. Stone like this cannot be found in Montane. Kieran said it was made in Gondal. He may as well have said it fell from the sky. Gondal is a lie, nothing more than a pretty story.
I close my eyes and an image of Kieran lying in bed flashes before me. He’s in the early stages of the disease, his brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. The larger veins in his neck are only beginning to darken. He gasps for air after every coughing fit, each one more brutal than the last.
“Don’t worry about me, Shae. I’m strong as an ox,” he told me before I was whisked out of the room, never to see him again.
For a long time, I can only stand in one place, squeezing my eyes shut until the stinging pain in my chest subsides. No matter how much time passes, the loss of Kieran has remained a brutal squeeze to my heart.
Gingerly, I put the ox back in its hiding place, close the front door behind me, and step past the wooden porch onto the road. I make sure to dust the iron death mask that hangs over our door—just in case.
The air smells crisp after the brief rain. In the dark, it’s easier to imagine Aster as it once was—shadows obscure the dry cracks in the earth, the barren fields, and the dull-eyed animals whose bones jut out at sharp angles. The moon is bright overhead, illuminating a sky covered in twinkling stars. The sprawling blackness reminds me of the stories of Gondal, bordered on one side by a vast body of sparkling blue water, said to be endless, beautiful, and deadly. It sparks fear in me, but also another feeling I yearn to be able to understand.
The dry grass crunches under the thin soles of my shoes. The sound of sheep rustling in their sleep follows me as I pass the barn.
At the edge of a grove of pine trees, I climb the massive boulder where Mads and I used to come to count the stars. The trees in the area are long dead, leaving behind only the contorted skeletons of their former selves—and plenty of space to see the sky. Their skinny, blackened branches are just another reminder that the land in our village is dying, that we could be next if we aren’t careful. I draw my knees to my chin, gazing out over the valley.
It looks bigger in the moonlight, an orb of faintly shimmering lights above. Below, heading west, a wide field is hedged by patches of bluish grass. Everything is ringed by the snow-capped mountains, on the other side of which lies the village of Aster, out on the plains through the pass. The moonlight is bright enough for me to clearly see my house farther down the hill, and the road leading to Aster’s center. On the other side, the pasture stretches beyond the dried-up pond and the dwindling forest where Pa used to go hunting.
My fingers reach for the needles tucked into my pocket. I try not to think about the shabbiness of the cloth or thread as I pull out my latest work, and soon, my needle is racing through the fabric, matching the speed of my thoughts. Unbidden images keep slipping into my mind every time I think I’ve chased them away. My fingers move of their own accord, the tulips I was stitching turn into exploding suns, followed by jagged mountain peaks, then the golden shapes inscribed on the Bards’ horses’ bridles, and yet more forms, these resembling fangs. I shudder, remembering something at the edge of a dream I had, but can’t quite see.
A rustle in the trees.
I gasp and nearly drop the thread. I scan the darkness. The trees stand watchful to my left. I search for movement—a wolf in the tall grass, the fangs of my stitching come alive.
“Freckles? What are you doing out this late?”
Not a wolf, then. For a wild moment, I imagine Ravod’s slender figure emerging gracefully from between the trees. My breath hitches a little, remembering the light shimmering in his black hair, the perfect curve of his shoulders, and how his eyes locked onto mine.
But there’s only one person in the world who dares call me “Freckles.”
“Mads?”
Mads steps into a patch of moonlight. His hair, which looks almost silver in the light, falls messily over his face. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his shirt is open at the neck. Years of grinding lumber at his father’s mill have given him a wide, muscular physique with broad shoulders and big arms. He has nothing of Ravod’s grace—more like a hulking gait. According to Fiona, he’s not the handsomest boy in Aster, but he has a nice smile. I think I agree with her assessment.
It’s difficult for me to clearly define how I feel about Mads. I’m really not sure if I love him or just want to feel that way because I think I should. I don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing a partner like Fiona does. Mads is the only boy in town brave enough to come near me.
He does have a nice smile though.
I bite my lip, embarrassed. Ogling boys is more Fiona’s purview.
“I heard what happened at the marketplace,”
he says.
“Grandfather Quinn,” I murmur.
“No. I heard what happened to you,” he says, leaning forward.
I wince, remembering the hands pushing me to the ground. Mads continues, “I went by your house to check on you. When you weren’t there, I had a feeling you might have come here.”
“I didn’t want to wake Ma,” I say, quickly stowing my needlework back in my pocket. Mads has never understood my fascination with embroidery, or the images I weave with needle and thread. “Too strange for me,” he’s always said.
Mads has been by my side for as long as I can remember. When we were younger, we used to play together with Kieran. After my brother’s death, he was one of the only children who would come near me, other than Fiona. The other boys in town ridiculed him for it—tracing the sign of the Blot in the dust everywhere I went, the same one that hangs above our door—but Mads never cared. He could never make others accept me; though in spite of me, he became well loved. Mads never speaks ill of anyone, much to my frustration at times.
“Wolves have been sighted in this area. What would you have done if one spotted you?”
“Make noise, throw rocks, and stand my ground,” I reply readily. “Like you taught me.”
He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad I can be of some use to you. This seat taken?”
I move to make room beside me. He climbs the boulder with ease and takes a seat, leaving a hand’s length of space between us. Close, but respectful. It can be exasperating how courteous he is. When I think of Fiona and her pack of suitors, it makes me wonder if Mads has feelings for me. But why would he keep his distance? Is it because I’m not pretty like her? Is he only being kind?
When I look back up at his face, his smile is tender and a little shy. My breath hitches. Mads and I haven’t been this close in ages. And never this late at night. When we’re so alone.
There’s a weighted silence between us as Mads’s large hand covers mine.
He clears his throat. “Your hair looks nice.”
My free hand touches the intricate braid Ma made. “Thank you.”
Mads glances away briefly, chewing his lip. After a long exhale, he turns back to me, his face altered in a way I can’t quite identify. “I was worried about you,” he says quietly, leaning closer. His nearness sends a warm shiver over my skin. “Freckles,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “Something’s going on. I can tell. What’s wrong?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.” It’s not true, but I don’t know how to explain it. Not with the heat of his fingers resting on top of mine. Not with all the pressure and fear of the day building up inside my chest, making it hard to separate it all into the right words.
His brow furrows. He’s not convinced. “You know you can talk to me, right?” he says. “If there’s something bothering you?”
“I know, Mads.” I manage to smile at him.
“Listen.” He takes my hand properly in his. “The drought is over. We earned a Telling from the Bards. The future isn’t as bleak as it seems.”
He pauses, and I try to drink in his hope. The safe feeling of his hand clasping mine. There’s a lightness in his eyes that hasn’t been touched by desperation, or blight, or death. I long to see my reflection in them—but I can’t, no matter how hard I search.
“Have a little faith, Freckles.” Mads smiles, the tips of his callused fingers tilting my chin as he leans closer.
His breath is warm on my lips, and my heartbeat is racing as fast as my thoughts. The tip of his nose brushes mine. His lips find my cheek. It’s not unpleasant.
Maybe it’s just not enough. I turn toward him, and our mouths meet. For a moment I feel as though the boulder has begun to spin rapidly and my arms reach around his neck. I’m just not sure if I feel that way because it’s Mads I’m kissing, or because I’m being kissed at all. I’m pretty sure I’m doing this all wrong. I tentatively open my mouth.
Mads inhales sharply and the furrow in his brow returns as he shifts back. The night air suddenly feels a little colder, replacing the warmth of his lips, and my half-lidded eyes open wide in surprise.
“What?” I frown, but in the pit of my stomach is the constant fear that he’s suddenly realized I’m not worth paying attention to. That everyone is right and he should stay away from me.
I don’t want that. I like having him around. He’s important to me, even if I’m not entirely sure of my feelings about him.
My arms unwind from his neck, thoughts tumbling wildly. I cradle my knees to my chest, a barrier between us.
Mads shakes his head. “I want to do this right. Not fast. Not without trust. You’re too important to me.”
I take a deep breath and release it slowly. It’s not Mads I’m frustrated with. Not really.
“It’s okay,” I reply, sparing him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “You’re important to me too.”
“Then what’s really going on?”
I already lied to Fiona today. My mother too. Perhaps it really is time to confide in someone. And who better than Mads?
“I…” I swallow hard. “I may have…” His eyes darken with concern. “I asked a favor from the Bards today. To cure me.” I force the words out quickly.
“You’re serious?”
When I say nothing, his frown deepens. I only confessed my fears to Mads once—on the night he kissed me for the first time. He assured me that I was imagining things; the Blot would never touch my family or me again. That he would never let it touch me. “What were you thinking? You can’t just—”
“I know,” I interrupt. Disappointment at Mads, and at myself, fills me, leaving an acrid taste in my mouth. I take a deep breath, but even that suddenly feels exhausting. “I know,” I repeat, quieter this time. “It was foolish.”
“That’s not like you,” Mads remarks, the disapproval in his voice apparent. “What’s gotten into you, Shae?”
Mads never uses my real name unless he’s upset. Disappointment turns into a hot fire in my chest.
“I don’t know, Maddox.” I yank my hand from his and climb off the boulder. “I only wanted to find some answers for myself.”
“What answers? There’s nothing wrong with you. You only fear the Blot because you lost Kieran. But the plague hasn’t been here since. It’s been years. You’re fine.” Mads looks down at me, pity in his eyes. “Why not trust what you already know?”
“Because I don’t know anything,” I reply hotly.
“Your life is good. You have a home to live in and clothes on your body and food on the table. Your mother loves you,” Mads says, irritatingly calm as he climbs down to stand next to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. His warm palms are the only thing that keep me from crumpling to the ground. “I love you. Isn’t that enough?”
Shock smothers my anger and frustration. “You love me?”
His smile answers my question.
But all I can do is stand with my fists balled tightly at my sides. He doesn’t understand the grief of losing someone to the Blot, of having a single event taint your entire family. Or the fear and uncertainty of knowing that there is something deeply wrong with you, and not being able to talk to anyone. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live with someone who is so broken by sadness that she won’t even speak. That is my reality, and he can’t imagine why I would want to do something to fix it.
He loves me.
But he doesn’t know me.
Mads must see the hesitation in my eyes, because he takes a sudden step away, fixing his gaze on everything but me. “It’s late, and we both need some rest. Let me walk you home.”
“I don’t want to go home, Mads.” It comes out sadly, a poor substitute for I love you too. A tear falls down my cheek and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “I can’t stand the thought of it right now.”
“You can’t stay out here alone all night.”
“You could stay with me?” I look up at him, hopefully. He is probably the only person I can stand to have around at
the moment.
The tips of Mads’s ears turn red and he lets out an awkward, shy laugh. “I can’t,” he says, his voice rough. “I need to get home. Important work tomorrow.”
A sigh escapes me. I try not to feel choked with hurt. “Do what you have to. I’m going to stay here a bit longer.” His eyebrows rise in concern. “I promise, I’ll head home soon.”
“Be safe, Freckles.” He presses a soft kiss on my forehead before turning and heading down the hill into the valley. I watch until I lose sight of him in the darkness.
5
I can’t sit still anymore, but I can’t go home either. My exhaustion is bone deep. But I’m too afraid of what will come when I sleep.
Instead, I walk up the slope in the opposite direction of Mads. With every step, the rational part of me says to run back to Mads and give him the response he wants. But something stronger pulls me forward—the night sky, the darkness burned with a message in the shape of stars that I can’t decipher.
I’m not sure how long I walk for. The moon is high overhead as I enter a small clearing, deeper in the woods than I intended to venture. My feet ache from the uphill climb and I half-collapse onto a rare patch of moss. My hand reaches into my pocket, fingers running over the furious needlework. The feel of the thread where I stitched the little yellow tulip petals exploding into suns calms me.
I stare at the sky above, willing it to be a mirror, or even a door into the future that Mads described. But as my eyes flutter open and shut, all I can distinguish is a sea of black, the answers sparkling in its depths slowly burned away by fire on the horizon.
* * *
My sleep is deep and dreamless, heavy as a cloak thrown over me. When I open my eyes, it’s to squint at the early morning sunlight that’s peeking through the gnarled, empty branches of trees overhead. I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I feel the crick in my neck when I try to lift my head.
I should head home before Ma thinks I’ve run off, I think, brushing a few leaves from my skirt. I only hope she hasn’t awoken yet, or noticed I’m missing. If I hurry, I might even have time for a quick breakfast before I have to let the sheep out to pasture.
